I'll be 'enigmatic guy in faux-leather jacket'. I'll be hanging by the jukebox, flipping a coin and looking nonchalant-yet-dangerous, but with a look of deep, profound emotion in my eyes.

the jukebox is in a bar in the edgy part of the city; kik and pishwig are checking out the joint, on a tip from 'The Laughing Man' (unofficially this is moousee, but shhh don't tell him).

the detective duo approach, wishpig noting the faux-leather of my attire with an undertone of respect. kik asks this ice cold mac about the one they call 'cat_race'; I rebuff his enquiry, 'hey gumshoe, this is a cool joint. how about you snoop around elsewhere?'.

at this point, Eltham strolls over - identical jacket, collar upturned. he greets me with the gang hand gesture.

'look pops, we're just a bunch of hep cats trying to get some kicks. those jive cats walk a different alley. dig?'.

after further casual interrogation leading to frustrating antibants, kik casts a wry, sardonic glance towards wishpig.

a moody horn theme rises as he downs his ale, wishpig waiting in the doorway, murderously staring down middle distance and loudly tapping her foot